To link to the entire object, paste this link in email, IM or documentTo embed the entire object, paste this HTML in websiteTo link to this page, paste this link in email, IM or documentTo embed this page, paste this HTML in website

A Visit To Federal Hill, Bardstown, Kentucky By JOSEPH S. COTTER, Principal S. Coleridge Taylor School I was accompanied from Louisville to within a few miles of Bardstown by the Rev. Dr. C. H. Parrish, president of Simmon's University.
And then to Bardstown; and after a dinner at the Boman's, on Federal Hill in company with master Eugene Belmer, my little brown guide. We passed along crooked lanes, below antique houses, perched by stone walls, and on to the old wooden bridge that spans the chasm and echoes a hundred legends to the tread of the traveler.
And on into the glare of the sun and the dust of the road, and on to the pulse of the rythm that has given a plain farm house a page in history and made Bardstown one of the capitals of the world. We passes through a gate whose posts were rough logs, and before us stretched a tree-gemmed avenue. My mother had told me of Judge Rowan's law office above the stone spring house, and there sprawled the stones like listless children. I felt like asking them to repeat for me a tilt between Judge Rowan and Ben Hardin.
As we approached the house, the only sign of life was a patient horse grazing among the trees; and, as I drank in the silence, I almost imagined myself a character in one of Poe's Mystery stories.
A knock on the door brought no response; a second was answered by the barking of two little dogs; and the third caused the historic doors to be slightly opened and the lips of a brown-faced girl to demand who the stranger was. The doors were closed again; and, as I stood there trying to think my mother's thoughts, the tall and dignified form of Mrs. Madge Rowan Frost appeared, accompanied by her young Colored helper and her protectors, the two little dogs in question.
"Come in, Professor Cotter," said she, "here is my family," "This is Margaret Robincon, a girl I am rearing, and these two little dogs are my protectors." Just then a parrot in the rear of the classic hall uttered several sounds as though saying: "Hold on, Mrs. Frost, I am a member of your family, too."
My little brown guide was all eyes in the center of so much living history, and I said to myself: "Could the inheritance of past ages be laid at the feet of the black child as it is at the feet of the white one, a new page would soon be written in the affairs of men."
By this time Mrs. Frost and I were seated at an ancient table. "It was in 1906 I received your letter telling of your mother's death. She must have nursed my older twin sisters, May and Maude, as your letter stated." I then told Mrs. Frost of my mother's stay in the now famous mansion as I remembered is from the time I first sat on her knee and heard it. I found Mrs. Frost a charming listener and I shall never forget her laugh. It seemed to reanimate the historic dead. As we rose she said: "Do you know that you have been sitting at the table at which Lafayette sat?" "No," said I "but in honor of his love of world freedom and the brave race to which he belonged I will sit down again." And I did so. "And here," she went on, "is the desk at which Steven Collins Foster wrote, "My Old Kentucky Home."
I touched the desk lightly and seemed to hear the civilized world singing. "The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home." Here she pointed to a portrait on the wall and said: "That is a picture of my sainted mother." "And she was tall like you?" I asked. "No." was the answer. "I am the tallest member of my family. I am a Rowan." And from the wall looked down upon her the portrait of Judge John Rowan. Then Mrs. Frost pointed out the many curious and historic things and gave their histories. There is a book over 100 years old, and there were vases, chairs, swords, tables, cabinets and a world of other ancients to keep its company. An article under a hundred years old would be considered a juvenile by this collection.
As I was looking at a combination of articles on the wall one of them uttered a word. "That," laughed Mrs. Frost, "is my cuckoo clock." My little brown guide was no less attentive than I. He would look steadily at something and then seem to turn his gaze within a form of resolution. The girl whose voice crept through the door opening and demanding my identity seemed to be growing into the superb personality of Mrs. Frost.
Here Mrs. Frost and I emerged, [as?] it were, from a world of the past and began to discuss the race question. Steven Collins Foster visioned the Negro as he was; but Mrs. Frost visions him as he is now at his best and as he will be. As I was thanking Mrs. Frost for her kindness and information her parrot called a name. "That," spoke up Mrs. Frost, "is the name of my dead husband. He has been dead for years, but the bird still calls him."
So my little brown guide and I bade Mrs. Frost and her magic mansion adieu and walked into the tree-gemmed path leading to the Springfield Pike. I thanked the spirit of Martha, my mother, for urging me to visit "Federal Hill" and say a word about it. As we trudged along the Springfield Pike and into Bardstown I found myself humming Foster's song; and I said, "Some of Foster's sentiment and word- (Continued on page 8)
Baden Scene of Great Affair; Mr. and Mrs. Waddy Entertain Out of Town Guests

A Visit To Federal Hill, Bardstown, Kentucky By JOSEPH S. COTTER, Principal S. Coleridge Taylor School I was accompanied from Louisville to within a few miles of Bardstown by the Rev. Dr. C. H. Parrish, president of Simmon's University.
And then to Bardstown; and after a dinner at the Boman's, on Federal Hill in company with master Eugene Belmer, my little brown guide. We passed along crooked lanes, below antique houses, perched by stone walls, and on to the old wooden bridge that spans the chasm and echoes a hundred legends to the tread of the traveler.
And on into the glare of the sun and the dust of the road, and on to the pulse of the rythm that has given a plain farm house a page in history and made Bardstown one of the capitals of the world. We passes through a gate whose posts were rough logs, and before us stretched a tree-gemmed avenue. My mother had told me of Judge Rowan's law office above the stone spring house, and there sprawled the stones like listless children. I felt like asking them to repeat for me a tilt between Judge Rowan and Ben Hardin.
As we approached the house, the only sign of life was a patient horse grazing among the trees; and, as I drank in the silence, I almost imagined myself a character in one of Poe's Mystery stories.
A knock on the door brought no response; a second was answered by the barking of two little dogs; and the third caused the historic doors to be slightly opened and the lips of a brown-faced girl to demand who the stranger was. The doors were closed again; and, as I stood there trying to think my mother's thoughts, the tall and dignified form of Mrs. Madge Rowan Frost appeared, accompanied by her young Colored helper and her protectors, the two little dogs in question.
"Come in, Professor Cotter," said she, "here is my family," "This is Margaret Robincon, a girl I am rearing, and these two little dogs are my protectors." Just then a parrot in the rear of the classic hall uttered several sounds as though saying: "Hold on, Mrs. Frost, I am a member of your family, too."
My little brown guide was all eyes in the center of so much living history, and I said to myself: "Could the inheritance of past ages be laid at the feet of the black child as it is at the feet of the white one, a new page would soon be written in the affairs of men."
By this time Mrs. Frost and I were seated at an ancient table. "It was in 1906 I received your letter telling of your mother's death. She must have nursed my older twin sisters, May and Maude, as your letter stated." I then told Mrs. Frost of my mother's stay in the now famous mansion as I remembered is from the time I first sat on her knee and heard it. I found Mrs. Frost a charming listener and I shall never forget her laugh. It seemed to reanimate the historic dead. As we rose she said: "Do you know that you have been sitting at the table at which Lafayette sat?" "No," said I "but in honor of his love of world freedom and the brave race to which he belonged I will sit down again." And I did so. "And here," she went on, "is the desk at which Steven Collins Foster wrote, "My Old Kentucky Home."
I touched the desk lightly and seemed to hear the civilized world singing. "The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home." Here she pointed to a portrait on the wall and said: "That is a picture of my sainted mother." "And she was tall like you?" I asked. "No." was the answer. "I am the tallest member of my family. I am a Rowan." And from the wall looked down upon her the portrait of Judge John Rowan. Then Mrs. Frost pointed out the many curious and historic things and gave their histories. There is a book over 100 years old, and there were vases, chairs, swords, tables, cabinets and a world of other ancients to keep its company. An article under a hundred years old would be considered a juvenile by this collection.
As I was looking at a combination of articles on the wall one of them uttered a word. "That," laughed Mrs. Frost, "is my cuckoo clock." My little brown guide was no less attentive than I. He would look steadily at something and then seem to turn his gaze within a form of resolution. The girl whose voice crept through the door opening and demanding my identity seemed to be growing into the superb personality of Mrs. Frost.
Here Mrs. Frost and I emerged, [as?] it were, from a world of the past and began to discuss the race question. Steven Collins Foster visioned the Negro as he was; but Mrs. Frost visions him as he is now at his best and as he will be. As I was thanking Mrs. Frost for her kindness and information her parrot called a name. "That," spoke up Mrs. Frost, "is the name of my dead husband. He has been dead for years, but the bird still calls him."
So my little brown guide and I bade Mrs. Frost and her magic mansion adieu and walked into the tree-gemmed path leading to the Springfield Pike. I thanked the spirit of Martha, my mother, for urging me to visit "Federal Hill" and say a word about it. As we trudged along the Springfield Pike and into Bardstown I found myself humming Foster's song; and I said, "Some of Foster's sentiment and word- (Continued on page 8)
Baden Scene of Great Affair; Mr. and Mrs. Waddy Entertain Out of Town Guests